


Do Your Eyes Even See Me?

by rubycrowned



Series: And Through Your Eyes (I See The One I Wish I Was) [4]
Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Uni AU, lourry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry and liam head home for xmas, but harry's missing what he left behind. so he goes after it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Your Eyes Even See Me?

**Author's Note:**

> almost a week later than i'd hoped but HEY ITS AN UPDATE.
> 
> yeah so uni's a bit more exhausting than i'd expected with such full days this year but i'm making this my priority whenever i have the chance so.
> 
> firstly - i'm chucking a quick refresher at the start of this chap just so that anyone who didn't read the niall chapter (it really is somewhat important to the storyline, but i've recently been informed that - actually - not everyone is like me and is willing to read every single part if it's not a focus they're interested in WHICH I DON'T MIND IF YOU DON'T IM JUST A DUMB WHO DIDN'T REALISE THAT'S A THING MOST OF YOU DO). so yeah.
> 
> also. lourry have been a bit too happy of late don't you think?

******well harry and louis met at a party and they got on pretty well (wink wink) so they're kind of a thing now. and so did zayn and liam, but then nothing happened so they're just friends now. except they stare a lot. and niall gets pretty sick of it. but most of the time he just likes flirting with ed and sometimes with zayn and sometimes with both and well. it's all just a little complicated because really he just like girls but he loves his boys too. and he hates it when they're unhappy, he even told liam to just kiss zayn already but liam's a bit thick sometimes. but as long as they're together and mostly together he can deal, with them and their obliviousness and even the part where he has absolutely no idea what he wants to do with his life. and that's what you missed on  ~~GLEE~~ THROUGH YOUR EYES ******* (yeah ok forgive me that atrocity and continue on with the story below...)

 

It’s Christmas break. Finally.

After a fortnight of attempting to cram everything he had blatantly not learnt throughout the semester into his mind – or at least enough that his lecturers thought he vaguely understood the concepts – and then regurgitating it all into slightly misaligned exam booklets, Harry feels as though he thoroughly deserves these weeks off.

And now it’s Saturday and Harry is shoving miscellaneous items of comfort and warmth into his duffel with haphazard abandon, hoping that Liam is almost ready to leave too. He ought to be, unless he’d managed to do what Harry couldn’t and fallen back asleep after they’d gotten up at the arse-crack of dawn like the spectacular flatmates they were to see Niall off to the airport.

Fortunately though, Liam has always seemed to be as eager to get home for break as Harry. Or, as eager as Harry usually is, as he thought he was right up until the moment that they locked the door and turned to lug their bags down the stairs.

Because Harry loves university; he loves the atmosphere and the people and the freedom of living alone, or at least with his best mates rather than under the more than a little oppressive blanket that his family can be. But that doesn't mean that his mum and sister aren't still two of his favourite people in the world, or that he doesn't miss them, count down the last couple days before he can go home to the warmth and comfort and home cooking that going _home_ means. And with Liam driving them both along the miles which connect one piece of Harry to the other, it's just one less person to miss away from London.

That's usually enough. But, this time, there's still a part of him which wants to be anchored to his little world created from one semester to the next.

He's not stupid. He knows what's different, what is making him turn his head like a cliché to watch the flat disappearing behind them through the back window of Liam’s rattly blue VW. He knows its Louis that made him leave packing his bag to the last minute. Although maybe he is stupid after all, seeing as Louis left two days ago, Harry having to squeeze in the tightening of his chest and mumbles of _I don’t want to say goodbye_ and _not goodbye, Haz, I’ll see you soon_ and a brief tangle of lips that almost hid the sob Harry is still too embarrassed to admit to and the soft click of the door closing, all between the pressure of back-to-back exams.

Louis.

Harry had never expected to find him. Not someone like him. But Louis himself (because if anyone was a unique creature, wholly and utterly themselves, it’s Louis, Harry thinks). And yet that’s exactly who he had discovered.

The past three months had been…incredible.

Harry’s never experienced such an instant connection – so much deeper than sheer attraction, although there was that too – with someone before, as he did with Louis. Not even with Liam, neighbours from the time when Harry was barely three years old and still trusted nearly every new face he met; even Liam took time to become accustomed to, to realise the older boy was far more likely to help Harry up from where his clumsy feet had tripped over a tree root yet again than to laugh and run off with the other kids.

It didn’t mean it was _easy_ necessarily; they bickered like old women more days than not, and both seemed to know instinctually which words could whip barbs into the other, lashing right where the skin was least protected and most sensitive. Yet, seeing the other in pain; seeing Louis’ face shut down into the guarded expression he usually reserved for anyone but not Harry (the smallest flicker of hurt flashing over Louis’ face could cripple a nation with guilt, Harry is sure), it killed Harry too. Words were reversed, apologies insisted, repeated like a prayer into the corners of elbows and angles of shoulders, and pressed into skin with kisses that held the same magic properties which a Scooby-doo plaster had once contained in years gone by.

Despite anything else, Harry couldn’t help believing that he and Louis simply _fit_ , not two halves of a whole, because he refused to think of himself as being that dependent on another human being (even if it soon felt like a limb, or maybe vital organ, was missing whenever Louis wasn’t around); but like – Harry isn’t even sure what – apple pie and ice-cream maybe; each alone is perfectly delicious and satisfying and all round excellent, but combine the two and you’re in for something timeless.

Because, when Harry looks at Louis, that’s what he sees; timeless. Scary words like _permanent_ and _forever_. And he thinks that maybe that’s naïve of him, as he goes back to his single parent home, but Harry’s gave up a long time ago not letting himself feel what his heart tells him is truth. Sometimes his heart turns out to be wrong, gets itself a little battered and bruised in the process, but what kind of life is it to be without the skinned knees and bee stings, the sprained ankles and awkwardly placed scars?

And the feelings which Louis stirs in Harry are the kind that are all encompassing; which has him reaching for his notepad and scrawling and scratching back out lyrics, melodies, a harmony to try and capture the smallest hint of whatever this is, to let the rest of the world in on Harry’s secret.

That he’s pretty sure he’s in love.

For all that Harry has spent most of this semester attached by the hand or hip or lips (or completely entangled until not even he could quite figure out where he ended and Louis began), this is a relatively recent revelation, and one which still hasn’t been spoken aloud.

Harry has always fallen into things with his heart first and his head trailing far behind, and this isn’t the first time he’s tried to label infatuation ‘love’. So this time he’s hesitant because – as certain as he is that this, _this_ is different, has an inexplicable quality that he’d never realised to be so crucially missing in every other instance – he doesn’t want to say it unless he’s sure. Not that this has ever stopped Harry bandying the word around with anyone else. But maybe that’s the difference right there. Harry _doesn’t_ want to tell Louis unless, until, he’s unshakeably positive that what he says is the truth. Because Louis deserves the sun and the stars, but failing that, he deserves this.

Still. The thought, the abstract feeling of comfort which tints Harry’s thoughts as he imagines talking to his mum at the battered kitchen table later tonight – and letting her see what this magical boy has done to her son in only a few short months – while Liam sings along softly to the Top 40 radio station the car is forever tuned to, is enough to make the journey home one of the shortest and most enjoyable ones it’s ever been.

***

Just as Harry knew it would be; it’s great to be home.

There’s nothing quite like that familiar scent that only home smells like, or the warmth of Mum’s hug for the first time in months, so much better than a smile across a webcam feed. There’s falling back into rhythms and patterns and even nit-picking, decades-old arguments which have followed Harry from childhood until they’re engrained into the very essence of him, yet seem totally forgotten until he returns home.

To the place where he took his first steps; where there’s a wall with a careful rainbow of markings up the doorframe to the kitchen showing both Harry’s and Gemma’s growth over the years; and where there’s still a scarred brick on the shed out the back from when three-year-old Harry misjudged his aim while riding his tricycle around the garden and ended up breaking his arm after crashing into said shed.

It’s the house with the stairs on which Gemma held Harry as they both sat in the dark and listened to their mother crying when their father left, and where she held Harry _back_ when Robin did the same, years later. The front step that held Harry’s first kiss with a girl and, later, his first kiss with a boy; it also stood witness to his first proper heartbreak to someone who his mother said didn’t know how to handle such a big heart as Harry’s.

His room is a living memory of his childhood and adolescence; from stuffed toys and Pokemon, to a forgotten set of football boots, to his second favourite guitar sat carefully in the corner of his room; all overlooked by a progression of posters papering the walls – footie players, the odd model, Panic! and FOB plastered side by side with Elvis, onto more obscure indie bands and the occasional Banksy print that seventeen-year-old Harry thought made him seem thoughtful and artistic. It’s where he and Liam made forts and held meetings when they were children to discuss the important issue of whether or not it was weird that Ella had given Liam one of her paintings in art class. It’s where he and Liam had made forts and held meetings when they were sixteen and Harry told Liam that _what if I like boys too?_ face suspended in shadow from their torches and Liam pulled him underneath his chin, _then you’ll still be the dork who refuses to eat aioli with their chips unless it’s mixed with the ketchup first_ , gesturing to the pink goop next to their spread of food. And it’s where he and Liam didn’t make a fort and Harry tried not to worry that his best friend was leaving for university to be hours away from him while Harry still had to finish his final year of college ( _if I haven’t managed to get rid of you after fifteen years, I doubt a few miles are gonna make a difference, mate_ ).

Everything and nothing has changed. And above all, it’s still home.

For now, the house is filled with homey noises and the smell of the kind of good food that Harry wishes he could afford in London. It doesn’t quite smell like Christmas yet – that always happens Christmas Eve, when all the preparations for the big day go full steam ahead – but Harry does help Gemma make an entire gingerbread army one afternoon while their mum is at work.

Gemma’s new boyfriend, Nate, sits at the kitchen bench, watching and poking fun when she manages to turn and bang into Harry, sending a puff of flour from the open bag over them both, nearly falling off his chair in the process (until Gemma shakes her hair all over him, flicking a decent pinch in his face for good measure).

It’s the first time either of them has brought someone home for the holidays, and Harry hadn’t been sure how he’d feel about it. This time of year had always been a time for just the three of them – Harry, Gemma and their mum – and it seemed like a big deal for that to be intruded on by an outsider that no one else had met up until now.

Nate seems like a top bloke, though. He makes Gemma smile bright in a way that Harry remembers but hasn’t seen in a long time, since before she dropped out of uni in Harry’s final year of high school, when she’d realised she had no idea what she was doing, what she wanted to do, and couldn’t justify to herself continuing down a path she had no intention of following when all it meant was getting more in debt, for nothing she’d ever use at the end of it.

And now, if nothing else, she seems happy. Which is all Harry ever really wants for those he loves.

And more than that, he can’t help but watch the way their family dynamic stretches and moulds to include Nate, the way his mother fawns over him and treats him like just another one of her children, alternatively setting him to work and trying to make sure he feels at home. He can’t help but watch it all and wonder what it’d be like if Louis was here with them as well, if it was Louis that helped his mum with dinner and got smacked around the head with the tea-towel for nicking a piece of chicken from the pan. And maybe it’s overly optimistic (because Louis is forever more of a hindrance than a help in the kitchen), but it was a warm and comfortable thought which wraps itself around Harry like the jumper his sister points out as not being his, _is it?_ and the slight flush that colours Harry’s cheeks in response.

It’s been less than a week still since Harry last saw Louis, but he’s already a little embarrassed by how much he’s been missing him. Harry can’t think of a time they’ve spent longer than three days without seeing each other since the night of the party (and there have been so many parties but the night he met Lou will always be _the_ party, for all that he can only remember blue eyes and a cheeky smile and hot breath against his ear), which is probably a little weird in and of itself, but it’s more strange to now go entirely without.

Of course, there’s still texting – something they’ve always done with alarming frequency, and not necessarily limited to being apart – and the promise of Skype when they have a moment. But it seems like finding a moment is more difficult than Harry had ever anticipated.

He tries firing off texts when he has a bit of down time ( _gem and nate snoggin on the sofa. feels weird not havin u to cuddle w. xx_ ), but it’s as though they keep _just_ missing each other; he’ll get a response as he’s heading to bed from when he must’ve sat down to dinner, or headed out to go ice skating with his family ( _soz took girls xmas shopping – 2 many heads to keep track of :P i no what u mean – weird being big spoon again ha x_ ).

At least at this time of night it’s easier to catch Louis, once his youngest sisters are in bed and the Tomlinson house is relatively peaceful. But even then, Harry’s messages are often left unanswered or he finds a blinking light on his phone when he wakes ( _sorry, didnt see phone go off. was watching love actually with mum and lotts. thought of u x_ ).

It seems like Louis says _sorry_ a lot at the moment. Harry feels guilty for even thinking it though, knows it’s just the holiday season, and commitments to spending real time with the family they go so much of the year without seeing.

It’s Christmas Eve before he knows it, and, of course – foetus-Louis being impatient and not wanting to miss out on the wonder of Christmas – it doubles as Louis’ birthday. Harry might be a little sad that he doesn’t get to wake Louis up with birthday blowjobs and French toast for brunch when they finally make it out of bed. That he can’t show him the present he found a fortnight ago, when he was wandering the Saturday markets rather than studying. However, the day is busy enough with preparations for the annual Styles/Payne Christmas dinner that Harry barely gets to type out a quick _happy 21 st grandpa xxxxxxxxx_ before his mum sends him and Liam round to the supermarket to fight to the death for last minute groceries they’d forgotten. He receives a response when Harry’s clicking his seatbelt in Liam’s car to return home; _just bcoz ur only just into your big boy pants…_ There’s just enough time for Harry to tap out a short _wish i could kiss you happy bday. miss u xo_ and receive an even shorter _u too. xx_ before Liam pulled into his driveway and they descended once more into the madness.

Miracle upon Christmas miracle though, late that night, Harry gets a phone call from Louis.

Harry’s more or less falling asleep already; it’s only the incessant buzzing which motivates him to draw his arm from the cocoon of warmth trapped within his duvet and reach for his phone on the nightstand. When he sees the name on the screen he pushes himself into a slightly more upright position though, mashing his thumb against the screen a couple times before his eyes focus enough to correct his aim.

“Lou?” he garbles, his mouth feeling like cotton wool from the sleep he’s trying to shake back as quickly as possible.

“Shhhhhhh,” Louis tells him, stage whispering, “we have to be _quiet_ ; my mum’s in the next room.”

Harry has to stop from sniggering because Louis sounds _drunk_ ; well, not off his face, but definitely tipsy. And he might be telling Harry to be quiet but he’s fairly certain that Louis’ voice isn’t stopping anyone from listening in on their conversation.

“Ok, babe,” he murmurs, trying to appease him, “Have you had a good birthday?”

“’S’okay,” Louis slurs, adding a mumbled, “missed you,” that Harry barely catches but makes his heart clench just the same.

“Missed you too, Lou,” he tells him sincerely, wishing he could see the face imprinted on the underside of his eyelids in front of him right now, “Wish I could see you today.”

“I wish I’d seen you too,” Louis’ tone isn’t quite as forlorn as it was before; Harry can _hear_ the smirk, “Miss snogging you.”

“Course you did,” Harry rolls his eyes, “you miss snogging me if I go to get a glass of water, you horny mess.”

“Not my fault your lips look like that,” and Harry’s pretty sure Louis’ pouting at his phone, but when he speaks again, his voice is lower than it had been a moment ago, “It’s like they’re taunting me with how good they’d look around my cock.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, trying to figure out if he can actually hear the rustle of sheets in the background of the call, “Well you’d know.”

“So damn fuckable,” Louis agrees, “Love it when you let me fuck your mouth.”

_Well that escalated quickly_ , Harry thinks; apparently this is something that is actually happening.

He’s never actually had phone sex before (he’s hoping like hell he’s not misinterpreting this), always being in relationships where distance had never been an issue necessitating it. But it is Louis’ birthday after all, and Harry’s dick doesn’t seem to be complaining at this change of pace, twitching at the thought of Louis stuttering his hips, pressing his cock between Harry’s lips to hit the back of his throat – because Harry loves that about as much as Louis seems to; feeling simultaneously used by Louis, with no control over the pace or what Louis did to him, yet completely responsible for the pleasure which always coursed through Louis faster than normal, knowing that he only needed to tighten his lips around Louis, apply pressure _there_ with his tongue and it would push Louis over the edge. Yeah, maybe this could be a good idea after all.

“Wanted to wake you up with that this morning,” Harry informs him honestly, voice rough, hissing through his teeth when he shoves the blankets away to expose his bare skin, unwilling to put on pyjamas even when it had been sleeting most of the day.

“Shit, yeah?” Louis breathes.

“Yeah,” Harry strokes himself idly, coaxing himself to full hardness, but not with any intent yet. “When you’re still mostly out of it, skin hot against my palms from sleep and cock half-hard already when I suck on the head; I’d make you wake up saying my name.”

“Fuck that’s why you’re my favourite, Haz,” Louis sounds like he’s trying not to moan and Harry’s barely gotten started, “You touching yourself, babe? Always so hot for me, aren’t you, Hazza?”

Harry ignores Louis' attempts at dirty talk and focuses on the first part of his comment, tightening his grip on his cock as he does so.

“You wouldn't be saying that for long. Once you woke up I'd leave your dick alone, watch it fatten up all by itself while I suck marks into your thighs and all over your hipbones so that whenever your shirt rides up people can see what I've done to you. I wouldn't touch you ‘til you were begging for it.”

“Such a fucking cock tease,” Louis gasps, breath hitching as he curses lowly.

“Now now, do you think I’d really tease you on your birthday?” Harry hopes his voice sounds less wrecked than he feels, his imagination and Louis’ breaths coming through the speaker of his phone working plenty well to fuel him; he hopes to Louis he still sounds cocky (no pun intended) and self-assured. “I’d make it up to you. Let you fuck my mouth just how you like, just how I love you to. Let you fuck my throat until I can barely speak, so that everyone knows exactly what I’ve been doing.”

“Jesus, Haz, I think I might-” Louis groans.

“Not yet you won’t,” Harry tells him firmly, even as he himself has to squeeze firmly at the base of his cock so he doesn’t get ahead of himself. “I wouldn’t let you come yet.”

“You’re such a shit, Haz, even in your fucking _daydreams_ ,” Louis complains, and Harry has to try not to wreck it all by laughing.

“You telling me you don’t wanna fuck my arse just as well as you fucked my mouth?” Harry asks, getting only a whimper which Harry decides can’t possibly be interpreted as opposition.

“I’d ride you, bounce so hard and fast I wouldn’t even be able to touch myself because I’d need both hands just to keep upright.” Harry can’t help the way his hips are starting to buck into his fist now, knows he’s not going to be able to last much longer, “I’d let you just take everything, and I’d be begging for more the entire time, because you feel that good inside me, Lou, make me feels so goddamn good.”

“Shit, Harry, you always feel so fucking amazing. So hot and tight and-”

“You think…you think you could-” Harry’s given up all pretence of composure now, just trying to hold on as he rambles everything that runs through his head, barely certain what he’s saying anymore, “if you’d be able to make me come without even touching me? I think you could, Lou, think I could get off with just your cock. You think we could try that-”

A punchy moan fills Harry’s ear where one hand is still pressing his phone hard against his ear with sweaty fingers, and hearing Louis come is all it takes for Harry to let go and let his own orgasm pound through him.

“Just for you, though,” Louis admits later in the after-silence, Harry still catching his breath.

“Hm?”

“A horny mess,” Louis clarifies, sort of.

“Just for you.”

Harry falls asleep early on Christmas morning with a smile on his face and soft snores emanating from his phone where it’s fallen against his pillow.

***

Christmas itself and the days following go past in a whirlwind blur.

Harry, Anne, Gemma and Nate all traipse next door mid-morning to join the entire Payne clan for the festivities. There’s the usual excess of noise and food, and for the most part everyone is a cliché of good cheer. In the midst of it all, Harry’s phone buzzes with a _merry christmas :) x_ (Harry responds with a picture of himself with the green bow off a present which Liam had tucked amongst his curls earlier and the caption _your pressies waiting for you xx_ ). Later, it’s just him and his mum and sister curled on the couch to watch Doctor Who and Christmas re-runs on the telly (Nate leaves mid-afternoon to drive the hour to his family’s house where Gemma is meeting him on Boxing Day), comfy and warm and familiar.

Harry can’t keep the grin off his face the entire day.

After that, it’s recovery and tidying up the mess of wrapping paper and leftovers which seems a lot more significant in the morning light than it had when it had been left for ‘later’. There’s Boxing Day sales and spending a large chunk of the gift money he’d received from relations, pushing away the thought that he’d likely be wishing he hadn’t bought a toy crocodile that could climb walls when he couldn’t afford anything but pot noodles in a couple months (eh, his birthday would hit before it got to that stage).

Liam heads out of town on the 28th, off camping with a largish group of his old high school mates until the new year. He invites Harry along with them out of habit, but Harry declines with a smile.

It’s a family tradition that Liam is fully aware of; Harry always spends New Year’s Eve with his family. He knows that a lot of people would find it strange, choosing to stay in rather than go out on one of the biggest party nights of the year; but it’s been that way ever since Gemma first left home for university and their tight-knit group of three was no longer together for long stretches of the year. Harry’s never been a huge partier anyway – needing to be in the mood for it if he’s actually going to enjoy himself – and if he wants to, he can always head out after the countdown and meet up with others.

However, it’s just before lunch on the last day of the year, when Harry’s dragging himself to the kitchen to maybe make some pancakes for him and Gemma that the phone rings. It’s his mum, and she unhappily tells him that a bunch of nurses at the hospital she works at have called in sick so she’s going to have to work a double; she’s so sorry but she won’t be home until after six the next morning.

It’s the opposite of what Harry wants to hear, and he’s not quite sure what to expect when he informs Gemma of the change of plans. He thinks he expected her frown, but not that it would only last momentarily, before she’s climbing the stairs towards her room, saying that she’s going to head back to Nate’s in that case, voice trailing off as she moves further away from Harry.

When she comes back down with her bag and finds Harry (definitely not sulking) where she left him twenty minutes before, she ruffles his hair fondly.

“You didn’t honestly want to spend New Year’s Eve in with your big sister, did you?”

“But you only just got back a couple days ago.” Harry _maybe_ lets a slight whine into his voice, but Gemma only laughs, not at all meanly, and pulls him into a hug.

“Yeah, but I spent those days with Nate’s family, Harry. This way I can catch up with all my mates and have a decent night out.”

“We always have a decent night.” Harry’s still a bit sullen, but he knows he’s not going to win on this.

“Course we do. But it’s alright to do something different too,” Harry grumbles under his breath but Gemma ignores him, “Go have a good time, you big knob. Go out with some mates, get a bit pissed, kiss someone pretty at midnight. Or, you know, don’t, seeing as you’ve got that fit Louis bloke now and all.”

Harry sighs heavily, knowing there’s no point resisting and that he’ll only make Gemma feel guilty if he doesn’t let her go willingly.

“Yeah, alright,” he caves begrudgingly, “don’t have too good a time though.”

Gemma smacks a kiss to his cheek and tugs him into one last hug.

“Don’t sit and sulk all night, Harry!” she calls behind her as she walks out the door, waving her free hand and obviously off to where she wants to be.

Harry turns back to the kitchen and makes himself toast; the idea of pancakes seem to mock him now.

He’s really not sure what to do now.

He doesn’t really want to go out with anyone tonight. The mood he’s in now definitely is not one which would usually propel him into town and clubs and alcohol which he knows from experience will only make him more moody and irritable when he’s like this. And besides, Harry doesn’t really have anyone he’d want to go out _with_. He didn’t really have a lot of friends from his own year at school, having always hung out with Liam and his mates in the year above and who were all out in the back of nowhere – Harry didn’t really know where, and Liam had told him before he left that there probably wouldn’t be cell phone reception for Harry to find out exactly where in nowhere they were. Those friends he did have that were his own age had really just been there to make sure Harry didn’t spend his final year of school _completely_ on his own, to have some sort of social interaction, and in the year and a half since moving to uni, they’d all but faded into that group of people he ‘used to know’.

Harry supposes he could probably stay in if he really wanted; could go through the routine he would be doing had his family actually been around tonight. But making a dinner that only he would eat, watching a film by himself and then the countdown live on the telly seemed a bit depressing for him.

About mid-afternoon he makes the decision he’s been skirting around and goes to his room to dig up his duffel that had been hidden under the clothes scattered around the room.

And half an hour later Harry climbs into Liam’s car (which had been left behind in favour of a couple of FWD’s their mates owned) and started the ignition, backing out the drive and checking the Google maps directions he’s loaded on his phone, hoping Zayn’s given him the right address.

He’s going to do the one thing he _wants_ to be doing for New Year’s Eve.

The one thing he’s been wanting to do ever since he dragged his eyes from a softly closed door to a stack of text books over a fortnight ago.

He’s going to see Louis.

***

Harry’s probably just over half way to Doncaster when he starts to think that maybe he should’ve told Louis he’s coming. At least texted him or something.

He doesn’t. His hands twitch at the steering wheel, out of time to the radio turned up too loud. Harry doesn’t know this road well, has only ever travelled it as a passenger when he was a kid, and doesn’t want to risk texting while driving in the wet conditions, or so he tells himself. He’s only fidgety because he finally gets to see Lou again; he’s excited, and there’s nothing to do with the way a small part of him keeps trying to hint at any other option.

There is, he allows, the fact that he is turning up at Louis’ home unannounced, and that this will be the first time Harry meets Louis’ family. Louis might keep a lot about his family close to his chest, but that, if nothing else, seems to prove how much Louis cares for them. The last thing Harry wants to do is disappoint, to have them not like him.

So maybe he’s a little bit of a wreck by the time he actually pulls up outside the house which definitely looks like its Louis’ – his second-hand Ford parked next to a station wagon, a messy pile of boots piled on the step next to the front door. There are quietly blinking fairy lights rounding the inside of the window facing the street, and they seem to shimmer slightly through the misty rain which quickly gathers in Harry’s hair as he climbs out of the car and reaches for his bag in the back seat.

He only hesitates for the shortest of moments when he reaches the door before knocking briskly, hoping it isn’t too awkward when it’s opened, that his brain doesn’t stop him coherently explaining who he is and why he’s turned up at dinnertime on New Year’s Eve at an unfamiliar house.

In the end though, it’s Louis who reaches the door first, opening it with the kind of rosy cheeks you get from sitting in front of the fire for hours, head still half turned and laughing at sounds coming from the open door down the hall.

When he sees Harry though, Louis freezes, and Harry thinks it’s the first time in three months he’s ever seen him struck dumb. Not that Harry cares. He can’t even wait for the other boy to recover enough to greet him; he drops his bag and throws his arms around Louis, hunching his shoulders so he can nuzzle his face into the warm space between the scratchy wool of Louis’ jumper and the soft skin just above his collarbone.

Louis’ relaxes almost reflexively under Harry’s embrace, although he doesn’t hurl himself into it like he usually does. He does, however, finally manage to croak out a, “What’re you doing here, Haz?”

Harry pulls back enough that he’s only holding onto one of Louis’ arms (he can’t not be touching him right now, though – not completely – as humiliating as that admission is) and looks down at Louis.

“Missed you,” he says sheepishly, shrugging. He can see Louis’ eyes flicker down to Harry’s lips, and he wants to smirk, say something pointed in reference to their last proper conversation (if you could call that a conversation as such), but then-

“Well who’s this, then?”

A woman with a warm smile and hair pulled into a loose bun has wandered out to the hallway, and it wouldn’t take a genius to know this is Louis’ mum – something in the way she carries herself and how her smile puts Harry immediately at ease.

Well, he was at ease; until Louis opens his mouth at least.

 “Oh, Mum. This is my friend, Harry. From uni.”

Harry is still struggling to figure out whether he actually did hear Louis correctly - hear him refer to them as friends (which is strictly true, but really?), while he shrugs easily out of Harry's grasp and picks up Harrys forgotten bag sat in the doorway - when his mother speaks up again.

“Harry! It’s lovely to meet you. I'm sorry, Louis didn't tell me you were coming or I'd have made extra for dinner...I'm sure we can fix that though; might just mean we have to have pudding - what a shame!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs Tomlinson I- it was all very spur of the moment, really. Louis didn't know I was coming, either. I'm really sorry for being a pain I just...my plans all kind of fell through last minute and I thought maybe,” he hesitates, side-eyeing Louis standing a very deliberate-seeming foot away, “maybe Louis would be pleased to see me?"

It hadn't meant to come out as a question, but Louis still seems uncertain and it makes it hard for Harry to respond confidently and concentrate instead on Louis’ mother.

“Course he's pleased; means he doesn't have to sit in with only his old mum and little sisters for company,” Mrs Tomlinson insists, with a lot more enthusiasm than her son is showing at present, “Now Lou, go take Harry's bag up to your room while I sort dinner out with an extra plate - don't you dare complain Harry or I'll give you the biggest helping to boot.”

She turns to lead Harry off, but glances back as if remembering something, “And its Jay sweetie; Mrs Tomlinson is Louis' Gran.”

Mrs Tom- _Jay_ – is a true force to be reckoned with, and Harry all of a sudden sees where Louis gets it from. Louis, for his part, just shakes his head and moves to follow orders. He manages at least a half-grin though when he looks back over his shoulder at Harry from a few steps up the stairs.

Maybe he was just surprised, Harry hopes.

***

By the time that Louis reappears, only taking slightly longer than Harry would’ve expected, Harry is half hidden under a pile of girls; the youngest two have clambered onto his lap – Daisy (he thinks) wearing one of his necklaces and tracing the shape of the birds inked into his skin while Phoebe (probably) repeatedly orders him to hold _still_ , left arm raised for inspection as she loudly counts off the number of doodled tattoos scattering the limb. Fizz and Lottie stand slightly further away, probably still within his reach, but seemingly torn between playing it cool and hopelessly intrigued, eyes flicking from arm to chest to meet Harry’s eyes only to blush and mutter something about helping their mum in the kitchen, yet making no effort to follow through with it.

He catches Louis’ eye after he spies feathered brown hair enter the room, the rest of him hidden until Fizz gives in and moves closer, under the guise of tickling Daisy in the side – nearly upending the lot of them when the younger squawks in an entirely familiar way and lurches sideways. For the briefest of moments, Harry gets to see the way Louis looks soft and fond and maybe even _happy_. Something clouds that lightness though, furrows his brow and, rather than continue in the direction his feet had been taking him to join their little huddle in the corner, he spins on bare toes and hollers behind them that dinner’s on the table so, “Hurry up and get it or I’m eating all your roast potatoes and you’ll be stuck with my carrots.”

Dinner is- well it’s uneventful really. Harry’s sisters continue their interrogation into every possible aspect of Harry’s life, and Louis stays mostly quiet, digging into his roast chicken with a gusto more befitting of Niall.

Jay, for her part, seems to be watching everything with eyes Harry is certain sees everything and all that which lies between for good measure.

After, the Tomlinson New Year’s Eve seems almost spookily similar to what Harry had expected to be doing with his own evening when he woke up that morning. There’s over double the number of girls, and the average age of the room is significant lower, but there are corny family movies on the telly, popcorn by the bucket, and plenty of wine for those old enough to partake (“Mum, _please_ , I’m _sixteen_ basically; it’s just a glass of wine”).

Harry makes his near fool-proof chocolate self-saucing pudding for everyone in recompense for crashing their evening, enlisting the help of the twins to sift and stir, as well as keep their brother from the kitchen (the recipe is fool-proof, not Louis-proof). By the time he hears the whoops of delight from the younger girls having tasted the finished product, Harry’s fairly confident that _most_ of the Tomlinson family don’t hate him at least (“Can we keep him, Mum, _pleeeease_??”)

“So. Harry.” Lottie hasn’t spoken up too much this evening, keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings in a way which reminds Harry a little too much of Louis when he’s plotting something. And the way she’s smirking now makes him wonder how much worse it can get than _do you have any more of these tattoos on your butt?_ accompanied by a chorus of high-pitched giggles.

“So. Lottie.”

“Give us the scoop, then. Our Louis here got any fit blokes on the go?”

It’s almost eleven now, and the younger girls are waning a little, but they still have enough of their sugar high remaining that there are small shrieks of delight at their sister’s question. Jay hushes them, but makes no effort to assure Harry he can ignore Lottie and go back to the Shrek DVD playing.

Louis, on the other hand, is staring at him, face some strange place between curious and stricken. He’s the closest to Harry, next to him on the couch, although Fizz’s head is resting in Louis’ lap, staring up at Harry with a grin on her face, dislodging Louis’ hand that had been absentmindedly stroking through her hair. And although Louis’ less than a foot from him, Harry feels as distant as he’s ever been, more so than when Harry was sitting alone in his room back in Wolverhampton. Because there’s never been so much as a hair’s breadth between them, let alone half a cushion, and there’s never _ever_ been hiding between them. And Harry doesn’t know how to deal with that. Or this.

A part of Harry wants nothing more than to come clean, to say _yeah, actually; he’s in a pretty fucking committed relationship as far as the other party is concerned, and I dunno about fit, I guess you guys are a better judge – do I live up to your standards?_ But there’s a bigger part that just wants a sign, a blink, a nod, that Louis has a reason for this, that he’s not leaving him out in the cold when all Harry wants is to be allowed to share some of that fire which Louis radiates, like home on a snowy night.

There’s also the tiniest piece of Harry that’s screaming for Louis to speak up for himself; to tell them _sorry guys, didn’t mean to lead you all along; I was wanting to tell you at the right time, but_ someone _jumped the gun. Harry’s kinda my boyfriend and yeah, I really like him, actually_.

“I’m not sure, really. There was this one bloke, but I’m not sure if it’s as serious as I thought it was.”

He speaks into his lap, where his hands are twisting around each other. He can feel Louis’ eyes boring into him while the girls titter around them, and when Harry can finally meet them, Louis’ eyes are blue pools, but they’re unreadable. They look a little bit like _thank you_ , a little more like _I’m sorry_ , and Louis’ hand is twitching by Fizz’s head as if it wants to reach out to Harry.

Harry waits. Louis doesn’t move.

***

They head to bed not long after midnight.

After Lottie’s question, they’d all somehow wound up dancing along to the New Year’s Countdown on MTV, Harry tossing back another glass of wine fairly quickly.

He’s not sure if it’s supposed to be an apology or something else entirely, but in moving to the rhythm of Carly Rae Jepsen and the less-than-dulcet tones of Louis’ sisters, Louis seems to finally overcome some of the distance which had been plaguing them since Harry’s arrival.

It’s as though he lets himself forget that he hasn’t been allowing himself to touch Harry, and Harry is far from being about to stop him. There’s nothing particularly sexual in the way they dance, and the majority involves at least one Tomlinson girl attached to one limb or another of either boy, but there’s something about it which triggers the memory of the first night Harry met Louis. Where everything was raw and new and uncertain, but there was determination in Louis’ eyes, even if every move he made, every glance, seemed tinged with presumption that this was the last time.

Harry had ignored that look then, and he ignores it now.

He’s not sure if he truly sees the worry, the pity in Jay’s eyes as she watches her children, flailing about in uncoordinated movements, all pretence of actual dancing gone by five to twelve.

But when the countdown strikes, Harry decides _fuck it_ , and leans in to press a kiss to Louis’ lips.

Or he would have, had Louis not noticed at the last moment and turned his head for Harry to catch his cheek instead. Louis laughs just a little too hard, tapping the side of Harry’s mostly empty wine glass and raising an eyebrow.

It’s too much, really.

So Harry begs off, a long day catching up to him and, really, he could just do with a sleep if that’s okay.

Jay smiles sympathetically and asks Louis to go make up his room, please.

There’s still a small ( _dumb, stupid_ , Harry tells himself) part of Harry which is waiting for Louis to laugh it off once they both head up the stairs, to insist that of course Harry’s sleeping with him. But, as asked, Louis drags a spare mattress from Lottie’s trundle bed through to his room, pointing out a cupboard in the hall for Harry to grab bedding from.

It’s not until the make-shift bed has been made, barely a word spoken between them, that Louis meets his eyes again. This time, Louis only waits a millisecond before surging forward, grasping Harry’s face between his hands and forcing their lips together with enough force that their teeth clack and Harry gasps.

He wants to question this, to stop, demand from Louis what the fuck is going on, but Louis moans as he worms his tongue past Harry’s teeth and licks filthily into Harry’s mouth, and then Harry can’t really do anything but hold onto Louis without any plans to let go because hell has he missed this. Missed Louis.

But then there’s a stampede of feet as several girls make their way up the staircase to prepare themselves for bed hours later than their usual.

And just as suddenly as it began, Louis pulls away, wiping at his mouth with thumb and forefinger, averting his eyes once more and taking a step back. He throws a pillow at Harry, one of several from his own bed and mutters, “We should go to sleep. You’re tired, and Mum’s just across the hall.”

When Louis’ turned the light out, and all is quiet, Harry noses his face into the cotton of the pillow Louis had lent him. It smells like Louis, and he’s not sure if that’s a comfort or not right now.

Harry falls into a restless sleep, thinking about green ogres and handsome princes and the possibility of his own fairy tale which seems to be riding off into the sunset without him.

***

Harry wakes groggily to the smell of…pancakes?

There’s a grinning Louis standing out of focus behind a stack of pancakes shoved precariously close to Harry’s face, dripping with syrup and giving off that aroma which means they’re fresh and still-warm.

For a few sweet, short moments, Harry forgets all about yesterday, last night, everything except the beautiful boy before him.

Maybe it had all been a bad dream. Or at least maybe he can pretend for a little longer. _Maybe_ today everything will be better.

He eyes the plate sceptically, fully aware of the multitude of sins which a good slathering of topping can hide.

“You make these, Lou?” his voice even slower and rougher than normal this soon after waking.

And Louis snorts; maybe today _will_ be better.

“Don’t worry, you shouldn’t get food poisoning this time,” Harry raises an eyebrow at him, “Oh shut up, Mum made them; the only thing I touched was the maple syrup, okay?”

Harry grumbles, but manoeuvres the fork right way round in his hand and pokes it at the plate of food which _does_ smell incredible. “Why is it that I still feel that’s enough that I’m taking my life into my own hands?”

Louis huffs, but doesn’t actually deny anything. Instead he takes a seat at the end of the mattress, sitting with legs crossed in front of him and prodding at the blankets where Harry’s toes are.

“Ger’off,” Harry complains through a mouthful of pancake.

Louis complies, if only for a second, before resuming tracing patterns into the floral duvet, slowly working his way further up Harry’s legs while Harry eats his breakfast (or brunch; he’s not really sure the time). They sit in silence, but it’s companionable. It’s possibly the most comfortable Harry’s found Louis since he arrived.

By the time Harry’s finished, Louis is sat next to him, not quite touching Harry, but looking very much as though he wants to, forehead creased in consternation and the smallest peek of teeth biting down on his lower lip.

It’s quick, like a pet returned after being lost, gone half-wild in the interim and still unsure if it can trust in the creature comforts it had been so used to; Louis’s thumb darts out to swipe a bit of stray syrup from Harry’s chin and dragging his nail slightly over Harry’s bottom lip before sucking the sweet topping into his own mouth.

Louis’ face has lost that edge, the wall he’s had up since thirty seconds after Harry arrived yesterday, and Harry really, _really_ wants to believe that _his_ Louis has returned; that everything before was just shock and maybe a little fear but now that’s all behind them. So when Louis leans back in, pushing Harry onto his back so Louis can straddle him and slide the plate out of Harry’s loose grip, along the carpet and out of reach, Harry lets him.

It’s gentler than the night before, but quickly gets heated, Harry’s hands roaming to clutch at the muscles of Louis’ thighs which grip either side of Harry’s hips, and sliding them further back to cup Louis’ arse, feeling the muscles tighten beneath Harry’s fingers.

Louis’ grin can be felt in the press of his mouth against Harry’s, and he presses feather-light kisses to Harry’s lips before ducking his head to Harry’s collarbone, biting lightly and letting forth a less-than-quiet moan vibrate through the bone as he grinds his hips down into Harry’s.

The sensation is fucking incredible after weeks of nothing but his right hand, but a long second later, the noises Louis’ making triggers a different realisation somewhere in his brain.

“Lou…Louis,” it’s getting increasingly difficult for Harry to form intelligible sentences when Louis’ licking a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his naked torso, but he makes the effort because, “your sisters, Lou.”

Louis smirks up at him and retraces his path slightly to tweak at Harry’s nipple with sharp teeth, and Harry’s trying to be quiet, he is, but he can’t help the whine that escapes.

“’S’okay, babe,” Louis insists, and when he looks Harry in the eye, there’s only slivers of blue surrounding his pupils, “everyone’s out at the shops for the morning.”

Harry’s brain shuts down a little, mind rushing too fast to notice anything except Louis’ words and the way they correlate with the circles Louis’ hips are pressing into his groin.

“We have the house all to ourselves,” Louis says with a leer, moving to drop his head back down and suck a mark into the cage tattoo on Harry’s ribcage.

Except Harry shoves him off before Louis can bruise the skin, backs himself up into a ball, leaning against the side of Louis’ bed and staring at a bewildered Louis, sitting spread-legged and holding himself up with one arm, erection obvious through his holey sweats.

“Are we only-” Harry doesn’t even know how to say it, because he doesn’t _understand_.

“Are you ashamed of me, Louis?”

“Wh- _at_?” Louis seems genuinely confused and Harry hates that he doesn’t know if he wants to hit him or hug him and never hear his voice crack like that again more.

“Are you ashamed of me?”

“Harry. _Never_.”

Harry’s voice is low, quiet, steady, but inside his heart is screeching, “Then why the _fuck_ are you treating me like your dirty little secret?”

“Haz-”

“No, Lou,” Harry can’t let Louis talk him out of this, because he knows, given the chance, that Harry will let himself be talked down, and he doesn’t _want_ that; he wants to know the truth, to understand.

“I thought maybe you just weren’t expecting me, or that it wasn’t soon enough that you’d told your mum ‘bout us. But you had every opportunity to speak up, Louis. I thought maybe you were still in the closet, that you were only out in London, or hadn’t told your sisters yet, _something_ , but clearly that’s no secret since Lottie wanted to know from _me_ who you were hooking up with.”

“Please, Harry, I didn’t-”

Harry didn’t realise just how angry he is with Louis until the words all pour forth, and now he’s started he can’t stop, not now he’s doubly frustrated with the hot, angry tears threatening to spill from where his eyelashes are trying to hold them back.

“I thought it was a fucking _joke_ , Louis; that you were taking the fucking piss and you were gonna turn around and tell me that you were just being a bigger dick than normal – and I swear to god if you try to make _that_ into a joke then I will leave right now and I won’t come back,” Louis actually looks stunned enough that Harry doesn’t think he could actually make the innuendo if he wanted to, but he can’t stand the fact that he knows Louis well enough that he automatically pre-empts it on instinct, when clearly he doesn’t understand anything else about him, about them, at all. “I was waiting for you to _fix this_ , Lou, and instead all I get is distance and averted eyes and sneaky snogs in your room when no one else can possibly hear us and if it’s not you then it must be me, right? So when the hell did I stop being enough?”

He stops long enough to take a ragged breath, unsure when he stood up and ended up looming over Louis who Harry always forgot could ever look so small when usually he was the biggest presence in a room.

He’s half trying to figure out if there will still be enough alcohol in his system from the night before for him to blow it if he leaves now and is pulled up on the way home, because it’s New Year’s morning and there’s no way there aren’t cops crawling all over the roads; he almost misses when Louis says it.

“But, Harry, you’re everything.”

“Well you have a fucking hilarious way of showing it, Lou,” Harry’s voice is still hard and if Louis thinks he can get out of this with a couple words – even if they are words which make his stomach flip and his limbs want to pull Louis to him as quickly as possible – then he’s sorely mistaken.

“You’ve been running away since day one, Louis. You let me in your pants, but you don’t let me anywhere near anything _remotely_ close to what you care about. We spend almost all our time at my flat. I didn’t even know how many sisters you have until last night, Lou – I knew your parents were divorced but only because you let it slip accidentally when I mentioned my own. I’m pretty sure I’m only friends with Zayn because he turned up to mine that very first afternoon. I never knew and I didn’t ask because I figured _hey, he probably just needs some time_ , but I’m sick of waiting. I’ve told you everything you could ever think to ask me, and more besides; you made me _care_. I turned up last night because if I couldn’t spend New Year’s Eve with my family then the only person I could think of was _you_. Because the only time I’d heard your voice in the past fortnight was when you were _drunk_. And because I fucking _love_ you and your mum didn’t even know my name.”

Harry wants to take back half of it the moment the words leave his mouth, especially those three little words that he’s been sitting on for weeks but never in a million years wanted to come out like this. The pancakes sit like bricks in the pit of his stomach.

Especially when Louis makes no move to immediately leap forward with an apology, an exclamation of _I love you too, you tosser_ , and Harry’s always been told he watches too many rom coms, but this is such a sheer antithesis to every romantic storyline he’s ever heard of that surely this can’t actually be happening.

Two things happen in quick succession.

Louis finally recovers his voice.

“It’s not that I don’t-”

And the front door slams open and a chorus of greetings float up the stairs.

Harry takes a step back and picks up his bag from in front of Louis’ wardrobe, shoving in items of clothing he isn’t entirely certain are his.

“You know what, Louis? Don’t even worry about it. It’s not like we can actually talk about it anymore, seeing as your family are home and all. Can’t have them getting suspicious or anything can we?”

“Harry…”

“No, you know, I think I’m just going to head home anyway. Mum’ll be home from her shift by now, and this way I’ll be back by the time she wakes up. It’ll save us both pretending, yeah?”

He zips the bag and starts his descent before Louis can even scramble to his feet.

Jay intercepts him at the bottom of the staircase, a frown which is far too familiar for Harry right now creasing her features.

“Harry; you aren’t off already are you?”

“Yeah,” Harry doesn’t meet her eyes, certain she’ll see right through him and the red which almost certainly rims them. He can feel Louis watching them from the upper landing, “Want to spend tonight with Mum seeing as I missed out on last night with her.”

“You’re a good boy, you are,” Jay tells him, even if her tone remains unconvinced of Harry’s honesty, “Louis, come take Harry’s bag out to the car, while the girls say goodbye to him, please and thank you.”

Harry hands him Liam’s keys when Jay’s look leaves no room for argument, and lets him past so he can get out the front door. The girls all come to give Harry a hug goodbye, having presumably overheard most of the conversation between him and Jay.

“I do hope you come back to visit, Harry,” Jay tells him while the twins leech onto either side of Harry’s waist, and he doesn’t quite have the heart to tell any of them just how unlikely that will be.

Jay shoos her daughters off after a minute, telling them to go unpack the groceries before the frozens start melting, and pulls Harry in for a hug of her own.

“I know my son’s an idiot,” she whispers in Harry’s ear when he’s close enough; Louis’ back now, standing awkwardly by the door, dripping slightly from the crap weather onto the doormat and carpet, but Harry’s pretty sure he can’t hear what Jay’s telling him, “but he will figure it out eventually.”

She pulls back and rubs his shoulder comfortingly, voice returning to normal volume.

“Don’t be a stranger, alright? And tell that Zayn Malik that he owes me a visit too, will you? Louis never seems to pass on my messages.”

“That’s probably because last time he came to stay ended with him calling me Boo Bear for the entire following semester.”

Louis steps aside so that Harry can open the door and his eyes are filled with things left unsaid. Unfortunately for both of them, Harry knows they’re going to stay unsaid.

“See you in London then, Hazza?”

“Bye, Louis.”

***

The drive home feels so much longer than that of the day before.

The weather seems more persistent, rain pouring down without reprieve; the music grating when combined with the constant squeak of the windscreen wipers, yet too quiet to block out Harry’s thoughts.

Harry feels suddenly and urgently homesick, desperate to get home in a way he hasn’t since his first school camp when Liam had had to cuddle him in their zipped-together sleeping bags and talk him down from the hysterics which had the teachers considering calling Harry’s mother up in the middle of the night (Harry had never been more grateful their primary school had been small enough to combine class camps).

He hugs his mum just that side of too tight and too long when he gets home to find her puttering about in a pair of Harry’s too-small sweatpants and a woollen jersey which Harry can’t remember her ever not having. Her touch is comfort and welcome and everything he thought he might have gotten from Louis but apparently never would and when Harry squeezes Anne a little tighter she murmurs sympathetically and he doesn’t need to see her face to picture the look of concern crossing it. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong though, and Harry’s glad. He doesn’t think he can talk about it just now.

Partly because, the thing is, he _could_ talk to his mum if she asked. Anne’s known about Louis for over a month now, probably suspected since as far back as mid-semester break when Harry had told her he was staying over the break rather than making the trip home with Liam – some flimsy excuse about it being easier to study in the empty flat falling from his lips. Letting his mum know that he was _happy_ was hardly something he was going to keep secret from her.

He thought being home would help – and it does, to an extent; removes the immediate anger and hurt that being in Doncaster caused – but Harry’s still restless. So when Liam texts him that night to let him know he’s back in town, he doesn’t even bother replying before shrugging a blanket around his shoulders and walking out the door, sprinting the steps over wet concrete in his bare feet to get to the next house over and letting himself in.

He gives a cursory hello, to Liam’s parents, but more or less goes straight up to Liam’s room and sinks into a ball in Liam’s beanbag.

“I think I’m going to go back to London tomorrow,” Harry tells Liam, only realising he settled on this plan when he voices it aloud.

If Liam’s surprised he doesn’t show it, not bothering to get out of where he’s already curled up under his own blankets, even though it’s barely gone nine.

“Good New Year’s, then?”

“Something like that.”

Harry can’t meet Liam’s eyes, which seems to be becoming a recurring pattern now, even if he’s one of the few people Harry probably could look to without fear of feeling useless or pitied, or immediately pressured to tell him everything. Liam knows him too well already; Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already guessed.

“Hm.” Harry feels a little as though he’s not the only one distracted and in need of distraction tonight.

“You?”

Liam pauses, and this time Harry does look up to find Liam trying to school his face, to smooth out the way it’s knitted together almost into knots.

“I think I might come back with you,” he gets out eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

***

The trip back to London is even quieter than the one they’d taken barely a fortnight ago, but the comfortable quality to it, the joy has disappeared.

There’s still the tiniest bit of hope. But Harry’s not sure when that hope had been for the return to uni, for the study and class and the hard slog towards end of year. He’s not sure when that became something to look forward to.

Maybe there’s still that splinter dug into his heart that is hoping that the return of that routine will bring back everything else that seems to have disintegrated with the end of semester.

After all, dragons were defeated, princesses were awoken, spells were destroyed.

But Harry’s not convinced there’s much hope left for his happy ending at all.

***

**Author's Note:**

> oops.
> 
> i might have fallen a little too in love with 'please don't say you love me' by gabrielle aplin while i was writing this...
> 
> just keep in mind there's still two parts left for shit to get sorted - liam's up next.
> 
> leave your comments/hate mail below xx


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